


Rare Interests

by rufeepeach



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Harry Potter!AU, Hogwarts!au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-05-01 00:52:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5185982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufeepeach/pseuds/rufeepeach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hogwarts!AU - Belle is a seventh year student who gets caught in the restricted section after hours; Gold is the alchemy professor who catches her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Belle had an alchemy essay due Monday.

However, Belle also had an  _essential_  research project on lost medieval hexes that needed work, and while she wasn’t getting graded on it  _per se_ , she was very much invested in it. After all, if she hoped to graduate with any chance of being hired back as a teacher, she needed to prove she had the aptitude for independent research. And it did help that hexes were so much more  _interesting_  than alchemical transformations.

The essay could wait: there was a binding hex used in fifth century France that would explain and link several apparently disparate muggle accounts, if only she could find the original grimoire.

The grimoire that was, according to the librarian, safely locked away in the restricted section.

Meaning that Belle had a decision to make. She could beg a member of the faculty to do the research for her, she could wait a year, move on to another section, and hope she was hired back and finish this section when she had her own access… or she could break into the restricted section in the dead of night, and hope the book didn’t contain any hexes of its own.

If she asked someone and they said no, then if they found out someone had accessed the tome without permission she’d be the prime suspect. And Belle knew she couldn’t wait a year or more, risking this crucial discovery on the vagaries of Hogwarts hiring practices. She needed it, and she needed it now.

Which was how she ended up in the library, covered in misdirection spells, the softest of lights emanating from the tip of her wand, in the dead of night. At least she spent so much time in the library that actually finding the book through the obscure filing system wasn’t a problem.

The tome, when she located it, wasn’t even wailing. “Belle five,” she murmured under her breath, “Library zero.”

She took a deep breath, ready to utter a silencing spell should it scream upon opening, and found the page the last book she’d studied had referred her to. 

Then she settled down on the floor, crosslegged with the book in her lap, and started to read.

“You know, dearie,” a voice came through the darkness, startling the life out of her. Belle slammed the book shut and scrambled to her feet, unsure of how much time had passed. Professor Gold wasn’t even looking at her, but at a place just to the side of her head. “Misdirection spells are all well and good, but some of us have keener senses than you’d think.”

Belle waved her wand and muttered the counter-spell, removing the charm. Her heart was racing, hammering against her ribs: she’d never been caught breaking the rules before, too clever and quick to alert attention, too studious and quiet for anyone to suspect her. And it would have to be Gold, the only professor in the school she was certain didn’t like her. He’d enjoy taking away house points or setting detention: he might even have her prefect status taken away for this. 

“Ah, much better,” Gold smiled, all sharp teeth and malice, and Belle shuddered. “Now, come along Miss French, spin me some glorious tale about how you were here studying extra hard for my alchemy essay, and simply forgot this section is utterly out of bounds to students.  _Even_ to seventh-year prefects who think they know better.”

“I’m… not doing your alchemy essay, Professor,” Belle admitted, deciding that honesty was now the best policy as another lie would only dig her in deeper. “I’m writing a thesis on lost medieval hexes and their relation to muggle folklore, and the book I needed was here. I thought if I asked, someone might have said no.”

“Oh they’d definitely have said no,” Gold agreed, absently, but he was frowning in thought, with interest even, rather than with anger. “You know, Miss French might be the first student I’ve ever caught in here doing independent study.”

“Does that mean I’m not getting detention?” Belle asked, hopefully. That earned a chuckle from Gold, a surprisingly warm sound. He was holding a lantern, and in the lamplight his face was cast in new shadows, golden as his name, and he didn’t seem severe as much as thoughtful, even handsome. 

Where the hell had that thought come from? Belle blinked hard: she clearly needed more sleep than she was getting. Gold was a nightmare, a strict teacher with a nasty growl and nastier bite, whose alchemy elective course was accepted as the hardest in the school. He only allowed those with the highest exam results to take it, and he was biting and even cruel to anyone who didn’t do the reading, or asked him a stupid question.

It was a school-wide mystery how this man, who delighted in torturing his students, had ever been sorted into Hufflepuff. Everyone agreed the Sorting Hat must have made a mistake: this snarling, taciturn man, who’d made his name with a formula to turn straw into gold and had immediately burned his research and refused to ever teach another witch or wizard, could ever have been anything but a Slytherin.

“You’re definitely getting detention, Miss French,” Gold said, as if there had never been any question of it. “Come along now dearie, away from the dangerous magical books.”

“They’re only dangerous if you let them be,” Belle argued, stubbornly. “If you stroke their spines and say nice things, even the nasty ones won’t growl too loudly.”

“The same can be said for people,” Gold murmured under his breath, and Belle frowned, unsure where that had come from or if she’d even been supposed to hear it. “In any case,” he said, louder, as he walked briskly away from the restricted section with her trailing behind him, “you will serve two months’ detention for this, Miss French. I can’t have even our most dedicated students flouting the rules whenever they wish.”

He locked the gate to the section behind them, and brought Belle up short. He was very close, and it was an odd moment, tense and awkward, before she stepped back and gave him space. 

“Are you sending me into the Forbidden Forest?” she asked him, curiously, for if that were the case it might not be so bad: lots of interesting plants and animal life to study in the Forest, after all. Gold shook his head.

“No, you’ll serve your detentions with me, Miss French. And trust me, I’m far less pleasant than anything you’ll find out there.”

Belle stared at him, eyebrows knit with confusion, for Gold notoriously loathed students and had only taken up teaching due to Hogwarts’ magnificent research facilities and store of knowledge. “Why?” 

“Your project intrigues me, Miss French,” he explained, and she was stunned - and a little gratified, to her own surprised - when he flashed her a soft, subtle grin. “Before I settled into alchemy, I was quite the authority on muggle folklore, especially as it related to the wizarding world. I thought I might be useful to you.” He looked down at her, gazed more like, and for a moment Belle couldn’t look away. There was something soft, warm, human in his expression that she rarely saw in classes: something yearning, although for what she couldn’t imagine. A protege? Someone to pass his knowledge down to? If so, she was more than willing.

the moment stretched, warm and comfortable if strange, and Belle wondered why her heart was pounding again, why he was in the library so late in the first place, and why she of all people received this leniency from him.

“And you can clean my equipment while you’re at it,” he continued, sharp and bright, a moment later. The moment dispelled as he looked away, “It’s filthy.”


	2. Chapter 2

Her months of detention had ended two or three weeks ago, but Belle hadn’t pointed it out and Professor Gold hadn’t told her to stop coming to his office every Thursday night. In fact, their ‘detentions’  had become a pleasant routine. 

Belle nominally cleaned his office, tidying papers and polishing equipment, and they talked about her studies, or his research, or the latest gossip flying around the school. He had an unexpected, sly sense of humour, and he knew more than anyone Belle had ever met. They always end their sessions sat on either side of his desk, sharing a pot of tea.

It was as far from a punishment as Belle could imagine, and she dared hope, that she’d actually made a friend in Professor Gold.

When the NEWTS closed in, Belle was glad they’d tacitly continued their sessions beyond the two months. He was a wonderful teacher, when he actually liked his student.

The fact that her blood hummed underneath her skin, alive with something sharper and warmer than magic, when he came near her to read over her shoulder or point out a flaw in her reasoning was beside the point. He smelled like tea and cinnamon and something clean and woody, probably from the polish on his spinning wheel. 

She never asked him about the pile of straw sat in the basket by the wheel, or the spool of gold thread on the other side, and he never mentioned it. Belle wasn’t much of an alchemist, anyway, and she knew her marks were only high in his class now because of all the extra tutelage he gave her.

Then, the first Thursday after her NEWTs ended, Belle arrived a little early to their usual meeting. She’d dressed up a little, celebrating the last exam she hoped ever to take, and she wondered, absently, if he’d notice. She was almost eighteen, after all, and in a few years she could be a fellow teacher, an equal. Maybe then he’d own up to the odd, warm, thrumming tension that seemed to fill the air when he drew close to her, and his voice turned low.

He wasn’t in his office, however, when Belle arrived. That had never happened before, but she figured he probably had someone else to see to first, so she pulled a book from her bag and settled in to read.

There was something glowing in the corner of the room, in a little alcove by a window. It kept catching Belle’s eye in the warm, cluttered gloom of Gold’s office, and after a few minutes, she couldn’t resist the curiosity it inspired in her.

She didn’t think it could be what it was. Pensieves were extremely rare, not to mention expensive, and all but a few were under Ministry control. But then, Gold was a very wealthy man: the only man alive capable of creating gold from straw. She supposed if anyone could afford a pensieve, it was him.

Belle knew she shouldn’t look, just as she shouldn’t have looked if he’d left his personal diary out on the desk. But she had been curious about Gold since the day she’d met him, and her curiosity had only grown as she’d come to know him better. He was an intensely private person, and shared very little personal information: he was a master at subtle deflection, turning the conversation, answering a question with a question. She considered him a friend, and knew she was an open book to him. But in real terms, she knew very little of him at all.

She was gazing into the pensieve before she could stop herself, and the guilt was soon swept away by the joy of discovery.

And then she was in Gold’s memories. It was Hogsmeade, in the main square, the ground covered in a thick carpet of russet leaves. “Papa!” a boy in his third or fourth year, wearing a Gryffindor tie and badge on his robes, ran toward Gold, who embraced him with a smile Belle barely recognised.

He had a  _son_? Belle was stunned: she’d never heard a word about a family from him, or from anyone else.

He was young, very young, only in his late twenties at the oldest, and wearing ordinary robes, not his teacher’s garb. “Did you get it?” the boy asked Gold, “Did you, did you?”

“I did, Bae,” Gold smiled a sly smile Belle knew well. He reached behind him, and picked up a package in the shape of a broomstick. “Happy fourteenth birthday, son.”

“Papa!” Bae cried in delight, and threw his arms around Gold’s neck. Gold smiled like nothing could be wrong in the world, a smile Belle barely recognised, his eyes were always so full of shadows.

Gold’s face turned, and twisted with pain as the scene changed in rapid succession. Bae on the broom, doing silly turns and tricks, showing off for his friends. A Quidditch game, Bae proudly playing for his house, Gold cheering from the stands. They didn’t often invite parents, but Gold had pulled what few strings he could, and he was so proud of his boy.

The rest happened quickly, brutally, violently. Bae fell, and Gold could barely breathe. Bae didn’t wake up. Bae was bleeding, bleeding all over the field, the medics surrounding him. Something wrong they couldn’t fix. A hospital ward, his boy asleep with an ashen face. A nurse shaking her head: “He’ll live, but he’ll never awaken.” A crushing sense of loss reverberated through the pensieve, shaking Belle to her bones: Gold’s face became a mask of pain. Pain that had never faded.

Belle wrenched herself from the memory with tears streaming down her face. No, she didn’t pull herself away, she was pulled by an outside force, a hand on her back, a shout of anger.

“What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” Gold demanded, and this time, this time Belle knew she was in real trouble.


	3. Chapter 3

“Professor… I…” Belle didn’t know where to begin: she wanted to apologise profusely for invading his privacy; she wanted to run from the second-hand emotion that threatened to knock her flat; she wanted to hold him tight and weep for the loss of his son.

Instead, she just stood before him, mouth agape, fresh tears in her eyes. Gold’s eyes grew harder with every passing minute.

“I expected better from you, Miss French,” he snapped, cold and cruel as she’d ever heard him, their easy familiarity lost in his icy rage. “Memories are personal, private things, and to invade them for personal gain is a terrible sin.”

“Personal gain?” Belle stammered, “No, professor, I-”

“Save it, Miss French,” he held up a hand, implacable. “What you sought isn’t in any penseive. You wasted your time.”

“What? No, I wasn’t seeking anything, I swear” she begs, pleads, desperate to see him soften, to know she hasn’t lost his regard forever. “I promise I won’t tell anyone, I promise!”

“Don’t lie to me, dearie,” he snarled, “you were looking for the formula, like everyone else The secret spell that turns straw to gold. You aren’t the first. You won’t be the last.”

“I wasn’t looking for that, I promise, I was just curious about you, I’m sorry, professor, I’m so sorry…”

“I should have known,” he growled, as if he hadn’t heard her, and stepped forward, crowding her against the stone basin, “I should have known that was why you kept coming back here. It would be a real boost to your future career, wouldn’t it, Miss French? To be the woman to uncover that little secret.”

“I came back because you’re my friend,” she whispered. “And all I ever wondered about your gold is why a humble professor would need so much of it. But I understand now. I know why you spin so much gold, why you need so much money.”

“And why would that be, dearie? Enlighten me.” his eyes were dark, almost feral, and if he were anyone else Belle might fear for her safety. But she knew him, now, knew why he was this way, knew why his eyes were full of shadows, why he kept his secrets and hated his students.

“Your son,” Belle said, simply. “You do it for him. You’re trying to find a way to wake him up.”

Gold reeled back, as if she’d slapped him, and staggered and clutched onto his desk for support. “You… you saw that?” he stammered.

“I saw everything,” she admitted. “I’m so sorry, professor. I was only trying… I wanted to know you. I  _want_  to know you. I didn’t think I’d learn something so private, so terrible.”

She’d righted herself, now, gained more of a hold on her surroundings. In her haste to avoid Gold’s hunted, piercing eyes, her gaze landed on a small, lit candle on the desk. It looked like a birthday candle, embedded in a small cupcake. Belle stared at it, aghast: he’d brought that for her, to celebrate her NEWTs ending. To congratulate her. And while he’d been fetching her cake from the kitchens, she’d been prying in his darkest memories.

Belle wanted to be sick.

“Those memories are sealed away,” he muttered, “no one should be able to see them. Not least prying students trying to steal my secrets.”

“You are trying to wake him, though, aren’t you?” Belle pressed. “That’s why you work so hard, why you know so much about so very many things. You’re trying to find a cure, and you make gold to pay others to help you.”

“This is none of your concern, Miss French,” his eyes flash back to hers, his anger returning in full force. “Get out.”

“Professor, I-”

“Get out!” he shouted, “Now!”

Belle scrambled for the exit without another word, tears blinding her as she hurtled from the room and down the corridor, up the stairs, and as far from his stricken, furious, brokenhearted face as she could get.


End file.
